One. Oh wait, my tongue slipped: I didn’t mean to call you “dear.”
I meant to say fuck you. And not in the sexual sense either,
because no one would ever want to take you to bed.
When my parent’s colleagues met me for the first time at the grocery store,
I was still in pajamas with a hospital bracelet attached to my left wrist
like a fishing hook that always keeps me head-under-water,
and I had no idea how to introduce myself without your name
immediately after mine, since everything about you always follows me around.
Two. My wrists are crime scenes I keep wanting to slit the yellow caution tape on
again and again, and you always know exactly where to find the scissors.
And hey. I’ve been single my entire life, probably because no one
ever wants to date someone who’s permanently under the weather
(my head is so full of storm clouds it’s a wonder my brain isn’t
drenched with rain), but maybe I should change my Facebook status
to “in a relationship with depression and it’s complicated”
because at least those first three words would make me feel less alone.
Three. My well-being is a practical joke and you’re just the punchline.
When I called the plumber last week to see if he could unplug the drain,
he told me I needed to unplug you instead; the issue here
is that you’re one of those cords that always fits any socket,
no matter the shape or size. People always ask me
why I always stay in bed even on weekdays.
They don’t realize that I’m permanently waking up on the wrong side of it.
Four. You’re that one pesky vulture that keeps circling the prey
no matter how rotten and broken it already is. Why isn’t it possible
for me to convince you how horrible my darkness tastes?
Why do you keep coming back for second helpings?
You feed on ugliness and chaos, but I guess I’ve never had
any shortage of those.
Five. Some days I leave the house just to prove a point.
I wish they had one of those concealed carry laws in this state
just so I could finally hide you away for a while,
but your trigger is always cocked straight against my heart.
Those are the days when all I want is for my lungs to commit suicide by gunshot
just so breathing wouldn’t have to seem like a 24/7 job.
Six. You make me feel so exhausted that even my bones have wrinkles.
Any remaining scrap of self-love has gone into hibernation for the winter,
and I’m not sure it will ever wake up.
Depression, you’ve crippled my motivation so much it’s gone arthritic.
Seven. My hobbies include acting like I’m not mentally unstable.
Even walking on a tightrope across Niagra Falls like Nick Wallenda
would give me a better sense of balance than you do.
Eight. I heard from the last woman you terrorized
that time heals all wounds. But there’s not enough of it.
That’s why I smashed my old hourglass by throwing it
off my neighbor’s roof- so I can keep pretending
that maybe my time isn’t running out after all.
Nine. When I slid out of the womb, I never imagined
I’d give birth to something as ugly as you myself one day.
I wish I could slash the umbilical cord that ties you to me,
but truth be told your skin is just too thick.
My mother always said that getting attached is a mistake.
Ten. Fuck you again. Fuck you then, fuck you now, fuck you still, always will.